


The Physics Of Falling Asleep (With You)

by ghettoassenglishman



Series: Take my hand--Take My Whole life too [47]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, College AU, Fluff, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Tumblr Ask Box Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 13:43:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3938968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon Prompt : Are u still taking prompts? ian cant sleep without Mickey being there!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Physics Of Falling Asleep (With You)

**Author's Note:**

> So, I kind of made this into an AU because my mind supplied this idea and I thought it was SO SO SO SO CUTE like oh my god. So yes. Here you go, Hope you like it!

Mickey and Ian had been roommates for over a year now; their dorm was pretty small, pretty shitty, a little grungy, but it was anything better than something Southside would offer them. Strangely, they had never come across eachother in the earlier stages of their lives, and in fact, it only took a couple of weeks for something to bloom between them.

Figure of speech, really; it all started when they fucked on the common room floor, over a shitty argument between who could have the bag of pretzels – but, that was a story for another day.

Mickey had gotten a job on campus, working in the freshman bar up until four in the morning, when all the party troopers fled out and did their walks of shame. They let Mickey use the day for sleep, or tactical studying – In Mickey's case, they allowed him in the art studio to finish his work – so everything could fit. However, Ian could never sleep without him being there. It was like some strange condition that he inherited from the first night they slept together – it was something about the way Mickey's arms curled around him, how his feet tangled with his own, legs against legs, his head against the crook of his arm. Sleep just didn't seem appealing when he wasn't there.

That and the fact that his medication was always fucking up, keeping him awake. Ian didn't need ten cans of energy drinks, a litre of coffee, nor did he need kicking up the ass to get out of bed. It was just natural to him to get up, go for a run, then crawl back into bed with Mickey.

Ian had flicked from studying, to crying, to a little more studying, to playing AA on his phone for a dreaded hour, and finally he ended up laying in darkness, staring up at the ceiling, hoping that their door would open soon and Mickey would sneak through. He still hadn't felt a droop in his eye, or an inch of tiredness taking over him, he laid there awake – like he did every night Mickey worked late – and replayed the eventful previous morning in his mind, again and again. (Quick guess, it involved Mickey's mouth around his cock.)

Again, he checks his phone, waiting for a text to appear that never came, then again, Mickey wasn't one to carry his phone around – nor would he ever hear it because he made sure it was always on silent. A poor habit that Ian needed to persuade him out of, just for nights like this.

Just as he was ready to articulate some notes for his physics, he jumps at the sound of the door creaking open. He doesn't sit up, its as if he's already asleep, but he turns his head against his pillow, looking towards the light shedding from the doorway, and the black figure standing within it.

The door slams shut, drowning out the load thump of music, from a couple of dorms down. “You still up?” Mickey whispers, voice filled with both annoyance and concern. This happened most nights, it wasn't alien to the boy.

“I couldn't sleep. Fucking med's are playing up again.” Ian groans, his voice a little low as he runs a rough hand across his face, latching it to his cramped shoulder. Mickey sits at the edge of the bed, shedding from his coat. Ian adds, watching him, “Studying is a pile of shit, can't get these stupid equations in my fucking head, I'm tired of it all.”

It was ironic really – because he wasn't tired, not even the slightest bit.

Mickey nods, as if he predicted Ian's answer, he leans over to the desk and lifts the pad with all of Ian's notes on it, scanning it quickly. When he reaches down to untie his boots, he asks, solidarity icing his voice, “You want me to help you out with them tomorrow?”

Ian could say he was shocked, but it wasn't unexpected. Mickey usually helped with college stuff, but not physics. Ian had always dodged to ask him about that, because Mickey didn't ever give off the vibe that he was any good mathematically, or with equations. Raising an eyebrow, he shifts into the sitting position against the back post of the bed, “ _You?_ You know physics?” 

“Don't sound too fucking surprised.” Mickey brushes off the offence with a bark, pulling the laces from their bow against his boots.

“No, I didn't mean it like that.” Ian immediately takes back his comment, guilty. Mickey had already confessed that he was insecure about his abilities, and Ian had _always_ reassured him that he had talent, that he wasn't just a waste in the bottom of the trash can. Pulling his knees up, under the blanket, he explains, “I thought you were all artsy and stuff, you literally paint all the time.” Ian lifts the fabric of Mickey top, that's he's snuggled into, proving his point when he gestures to the splat of paints all over it. 

Ian already knew Mickey was great with his hands, like really fucking great, but he could still remember the day that Mickey had shown him his work, down at the studio. Mickey was doing an art course, enrolled with the grit of his sister pushing him towards it, Ian was glad that she had done that. It was the first time the brunette had opened up, finally letting Ian in, and really – Ian hadn't been phased that Mickey was into art, some people would say it wasn't typical for the thug, but everything that the Mickey created was beautiful, it always took Ian's breath away. However, it didn't stop him from teasing the other boy.

Mickey kicks his boots off, reaching for the buckle of his jeans, but takes the time to flip Ian off and shoot him a glare in the process. “Back on the 'side, I was dealing since I was twelve-” He tries to ignore the unimpressed look from his boyfriend, and carries on, “We didn't just linger on street corners, you know.” Jeans successfully on the floor, next to Ian's, he pulls out his pack of smokes, smacking a hand against Ian's hidden leg, “And fuck off, I don't paint all the fucking time.”

Ian lets out a playful, snickering laugh, before tilting his head smugly. “I'm pretty sure you don't need quantum physics to deal coke, Mick?” His brow his arched, a tactical move he used on Mickey to get him all rivalled up. He gives him grabby hands, motioning towards the burning stick between Mickey's fingers.

They weren't allowed to smoke in dorms, but Mickey had pulled off the fire detector from the roof – so Ian knew, if there was a fire at least they could light their cigarettes off of it.

“Fuck _off.”_ Mickey pulls back, nearly toppling over the edge of the bed, smirking towards the pout against Ian's lips. Taking a drag, teasingly, he says, “You never know, man.” He doesn't really know where he's going with this. Ian gives him an odd look, like he already knows what he's about to confess. 

Ian's stare becomes incredulous, Mickey finally gives in, “Alright, Alright. Me and Iggy used to count the goods, I learned a couple of things off him.” He turns away from the redhead, a little embarrassed and he wasn't sure why exactly. It was only fucking physics.

Shocked, but a smile breaking against his face, Ian shoots, “Iggy knows physics?”

“More than he fucking should.” Mickey nods, pleasurably taking a long, drawn out, drag from his cancer stick, relishing in the taste of black lungs.

“Woah, go Iggy.” Ian breathes, attempting to scoot down the bed, the blankets bunching up in his lap as he nears to the other boy. Mickey finally gives him the smoke, pressing it onto his hand, Ian feels himself victory marching internally. Mickey would always give in, to him. Going back to the original issue, he agrees, sweetly, “But yeah, it'd be great if you helped. Hey, it could even take your mind off all that painting.”

That's when Mickey pounces, he straddles Ian's hips, fingers digging into his sides, tickling him in the sensitive spot that Ian regrets telling him about in the first place. The redhead squeals, squirming under his fingers, failing to hold the cigarette in the air, arms fraying around. Mickey grins, his hips rutting as he continued to display the torture, through his bubbling laugher the words escape, “Fuck off, I. Don't. Just. Fucking. Paint.”

“Alright, Alright!” Ian surrenders, tossing his head to the side of Mickey's fingers worked into the side of his ribs, causing him to yelp and giggle into the softness of the pillow case. He tosses the smoke into the cup at the side, using all his strength to flip them over against the sheets. They both are panting heavily, chests bobbing in a heave, their faces barely inches apart. Sweetly, Ian leans down and pecks a kiss at the tip of his nose, before he giggles, “But you do.”

Mickey scoffs, hands placed around the joint of Ian's hips, his eyes filled with wonder as they always did. Softer than he wanted, he grits, “You wanna fucking die, Gallagher?” Ian stifles his laughter, biting into his lip. Mickey could already see the day creeping up on him, the evident bags underneath Ian's eyes. Affectionately, he reaches up and pushes the strand of hair away from the taller boys eyes. “Seriously though, man, you've been up since five how the fuck are you not a walking zombie right now?”

Ian plays, “Because I'm not  _walking?”_

“Shut the fuck up, man.” Mickey nudges him with his knee, eyes trailing from Ian's eyes down to his plump, slightly dried lips. God, they always look so fucking appealing.

The redhead shrugs, leaning himself up with his arms either side of Mickey. “I don't know, med's keep me up, and I guess I'm just used to having someone here with me.” His cheeks flush, he slides to the side of Mickey, pulling the blanket from around its twisted state. Mickey faces him, leaning up on his elbow.

“What, me?”

Ian gives him the bitch face, eyes nearly rolling out of his head, “No, all the other art seniors I happen to fuck daily,  _and_ have feelings for.” He slaps Mickey's chest, cockily, slipping underneath the blanket and pulling it around his significant other. 

After weeks of Mickey's bed not being used, like ever – even when they argued – a couple of months within knowing each-other they pushed the beds together, forming a double. It was still struggle, fearful moments in the night where one of them would slip down the gap between the two, but – they always ended up curled onto one mattress, arms wrapped around each-other as if they were afraid to let go.

With a blush against his cheeks, Mickey leans up to pull the shirt over his head, tossing it into the corner of the room. “You really gotta say that?” He refers to the outburst of confession, the  _feelings_ thing. They had grown, opened up, expressed how they felt, but it never got easier for him to actually say the words. 

Ian pulls him against his chest, sighing loudly, “What, I really fucking like you. Deal with it.”

Mickey lets a pause settle in, his hand absently forming shapes against the pale skin of Ian's chest, the cigarette in the cup still burning down to its but, the smoke evaporating above their heads. Ian yawns into the back of his hand, pulling Mickey closer unnoticed. Mickey shuffles, tangles his legs with Ian's, and hoarsely suggests, “Let's go to sleep.”

“Can't.” Ian groans, his hand – that wasn't already wrapped around Mickey's waist – fell against his forehead in frustration.

“Well, I'm here aren't I?” Mickey supplies, turning his head into the crook of Ian's arm, relishing in the warmth that Ian's body radiated off. It wasn't surprising, Ian had grown up in a house full of people, a room filled with three or four of them. Even if the campus was full of people – it wasn't the same, it didn't _feel_ the same. Mickey felt like that sometimes, too. 

Ian looks down through his lashes at the brunette sprawled against his chest, arm tugging a little against the waistband of his boxers, fingers resting at the skin above it. His chest tightened at the sight, heart beating like a drum. He leans down, gently pressing a kiss into the used cigarette and cocktail scented hair, before leaning his chin against the top. “Yeah, It helps, really helps. But my head is fucking pounding.” 

Mickey can't help but feel guilty, he closes his eyes, suggesting, “So, we'll get some new med's.” 

“Mickey we can'-” Ian tries to protest, instantly being cut off by the rough scratch of Mickey's voice. 

Mickey mumbles against his skin, voice tired,“I'll call them tomorrow.” 

Ian continues his refusal, pinching the bridge of his nose, “But we don't have any-” 

Mickey already knew that Ian's medication was expensive, but really, it was on his top priority list. “I'll deal some coke, college kids bone over that shit-” Which they both knew was true, they did meet formally in that way. 

Ian feels himself sink into the bed, he didn't want anyone to worry about him, or look out for him, it was something he had always been able to do himself. But, this was Mickey. Mickey was stronger than he was, and Ian couldn't help but  _ need  _ that sense of safety now and again. It didn't stop him from protesting, it was too much, Mickey was giving to much and he wasn't hardly getting anything back, “Mick, you don't have to do-” 

The brunette shoots his eyes open, leaning up against his arm, eyes locking with Ian's, a seriousness dominating his face, “Yes I fucking do. If you can't sleep then I don't sleep, and that's a problem for the both of us, isn't it?” He doesn't notice that he's jabbing Ian's chest, until he hears him wince a little, he rubs against the red spot before Ian's hand clutches around his wrist. 

“So, You're doing this for you?” Ian asks, unconvinced. 

Mickey rests himself back into his spot, hand protectively sprawled against Ian's heart. He nods against Ian's shoulder, smile evident against his face. “Absolutely.” 

Of course, Ian knew that Mickey was lying. Mickey did everything to make sure Ian was healthy, or sleeping, or doing all of his work. Sometimes Mickey would leave the studio early, bringing his art work to the dorm, in case Ian broke down that day and he had no one to actually  _ be  _ there. Through his lows, Mickey had been by his side, taking days off, fitting his schedule around Ian other than the other way round. It had always been Ian first with Mickey. Scoffing, a choke in his throat, Ian snarls, “You almost sound truthful.” 

“Just shut the hell up and let me take care of you, yeah?” Mickey swats his head against the curve of Ian's neck, hand falling to the side, firmly stroking against the column of his neck. 

Ian doesn't know how to express how he feels at that moment, how he wants to react to the opened Mickey, instead he feels his eyes drooping a little. Like Mickey was actually letting him drift off to sleep. “Fine.” He grumbles, scowling, his freehand resting at Mickey's side, pulling him halfway onto his chest. 

“Wipe that look off your face, I don't like it.” Mickey playfully rubs his palm against Ian's scowl, chuckling against Ian's skin, causing it to tickle and vibrate like it always did. Especially when Mickey was around. 

Ian snorts, sticking out his tongue to rid the palm, he basks in his victory when Mickey's hand hooks around his neck, humming smugly. “I don't like you.” 

“ _Sure.”_ Mickey rolls of his tongue, reading Ian like an open book. “Looks like you do because you can't sleep without me.” That's when the brunette turns from the awkward position, letting Ian pull his back against his chest, arms wrapping around his waist, hands intertwining with his against his chest. “Fucking spooning.” Mickey mumbles, laughing at the stupidity of the whole thing. Really, he didn't mind it that much. 

Ian kisses the base of his shoulder, finally finding that sleep he had been waiting for. “You love it really, Milkovich.” 

“Idiot.” Mickey mumbles, pushing himself backwards into Ian's chest, the single-bed seemed bigger. 

Ian scoffs, trailing his mouth over the crook of Mickey's neck, and up to the lobe of his ear, before planting a soft kiss against the side of his cheek. “Dick.” 

It wasn't quick, nor was it because Mickey felt so fucking good in his arms (because he really did, he would never get over the feeling of Mickey laid next to him) but soon enough, Ian found himself drifting off, thankful for meeting Mickey when he did. 


End file.
